SINFUL RULES

Silence was the only thing that kept a man alive in a world full of vultures.

I looked down at the rain-slicked pavement of downtown Chicago from the top floor of the Woods Tower, swirling the amber scotch in my crystal glass. Down there, millions of people lived their noisy, chaotic lives, completely oblivious to the strings being pulled above them. They rushed through the downpour, chasing fleeting dreams, drowning in their own uncoordinated noise.

Up here, I controlled every single variable.

The temperature of the room was a precise sixty-eight degrees. The lighting was dimmed to exactly twenty percent to ease the strain on the eyes after a fourteen-hour workday. The security systems surrounding this penthouse penthouse were military-grade, designed to keep out the monsters of the world. I knew the exact layout of my empire, the exact state of our multi-billion-dollar bank accounts, and the exact names of every enemy who wished to see the Woods name dragged through the mud. I was Modric Woods. I didn’t deal in probabilities. I dealt in absolute certainties.

Except one.

A soft tap sounded at the heavy mahogany door of my private office. It was so faint that a lesser man would have missed it entirely, blending it into the rhythmic drumming of the storm against the reinforced glass windows. But my senses were always dialed to a lethal edge.

I didn’t turn around immediately. I didn’t need to. The quiet, hesitant steps belonged to only one person on this entire estate. The world could be ending outside, but those soft, padding footsteps would always anchor me back to reality.

“Naomi,” I said softly, stripping every drop of steel and venom from my voice.

When I spoke to the board of directors, my voice was an executioner’s blade. When I spoke to my daughter, it was the only piece of humanity I had left to offer.

I turned around and lowered myself to one knee, ignoring the faint protest of an old injury. My four-year-old daughter stood in the doorway, clutching her faded blue blanket tightly against her small frame. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes—so terrifyingly much like mine—stared at me with a depth no child her age should ever carry. Children were supposed to be vibrant, loud, and full of reckless joy. Naomi was none of those things. She pressed her lips tightly together, holding a heavy sketchbook against her chest like a shield protecting her heart.

She hadn’t spoken a single word in two years. Not a sentence. Not a murmur. Not a cry.

When her mother walked out of our lives, she didn’t just abandon us. She didn’t just pack her designer bags and demand a multi-million-dollar settlement before vanishing into the wind. She ripped away my daughter’s voice, leaving behind a suffocated, heavy silence that lived in the corners of this giant, empty house. The trauma of that sudden abandonment had locked Naomi behind a wall that no child psychologist, speech therapist, or medical expert could break through. They had all given me their textbook theories, pocketing my thousands of dollars while offering nothing but sympathetic shrugs. I had fired every last one of them.

“Time for bed, sweetheart,” I whispered, reaching out to gently smooth a stray, dark curl away from her forehead.

Naomi didn’t pull away from my touch, but she didn’t lean into it either. She was a tiny fortress, walled off from a world that had hurt her before she even learned how to fully navigate it. Watching her stare at me with those expressive, silent eyes cut deeper than any blade ever could. It was a daily reminder of my own failure to protect her from the one person who should have loved her unconditionally.

Because of that failure, I had sworn a blood oath on my life that no woman would ever step into this house and shatter her peace again. I didn’t trust women. I didn’t trust their soft, rehearsed words. I didn’t trust their fake, practiced smiles, or the sweet promises they whispered when they wanted to wrap their fingers around your wealth. To me, they were all opportunists, looking for a way to exploit a vulnerability. And right now, Naomi was my only vulnerability.

My brothers thought I was turning into an absolute monster.

Just last week, the secure line on my desk had buzzed, interrupting a high-profile acquisition.

“You’re suffocating her, Modric,” Miguel’s gravelly voice had echoed through the speaker, transmitting from whatever dark corner of the underworld he was ruling over this month. “You can’t lock a child in a golden cage and expect her to thrive. You’re turning into a paranoid bastard.”

“She’s safe,” I had replied, my tone flat enough to cut glass. “That is all that matters.”

Rowan had joined the call a moment later, laughing it off between the clinking of champagne flutes at some high-society gala he was using to mask his own operations. “Let the big brother brood, Miguel. He thinks he’s a king guarding a treasure. But even kings need a queen, Modric. Or at least someone to clean up the mess.”

They didn’t understand. They hadn’t been here the night Naomi cried until her vocal cords gave out, staring at a front door that would never open again. They hadn’t seen the exact moment the light left her eyes, replacing her childish laughter with a haunting, permanent stillness. They didn’t understand that I would gladly tear the entire world down, brick by bloody brick, just to keep Naomi safe from another heartbreak.

I stood up slowly, stretching out my hand. Naomi looked at my palm for a long moment before placing her small, warm hand in mine. Her grip was tight, a silent plea for security that I answered by squeezing back gently. Together, we walked down the dimly lit, expansive hallway of the penthouse. The walls were lined with expensive artwork—pieces I had bought simply because they filled the void, though none of them brought life to the cold marble floors.

I guided her into her bedroom, a space designed to be a sanctuary. The walls were painted a soft, calming pastel, and shelves were piled high with books and art supplies. I tucked her into the plush bed, pulling the comforter up to her chin. She adjusted her faded blue blanket, her eyes tracking my every movement.

“I’ll be right outside, Naomi. Always,” I murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple.

She offered a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. She reached for her sketchbook, opening it to a fresh page, her crayons already lined up neatly on her nightstand. She didn’t want the lights turned off completely, so I left the bedside lamp casting a warm, amber glow across the room.

Closing her door with a quiet click, I walked back toward my office, the silence of the penthouse wrapping around me like a heavy cloak. I poured myself another finger of scotch and sat down behind the massive desk. My laptop screen was open, displaying a folder containing eight detailed dossiers.

Tomorrow morning, candidate number eight was coming for an interview.

The previous seven had been an absolute joke. One had tried to flirt with me within three minutes of sitting down, her perfume so strong it practically choked me. Another had looked at Naomi like she was a paycheck, a chore to be managed rather than a fragile soul to be protected. The others had crumbled the moment I opened my mouth, unable to handle the intense interrogation I put them through. They were all looking for a fat paycheck, a reference from the Woods empire, or a golden ticket into my bed.

I pulled up the profile for candidate number eight. Evalyn Black.

Her resume was immaculate, filled with top-tier certifications and glowing recommendations from elite families. But resumes could be bought, and references could be forged. I stared at the digital photograph attached to her file. She had striking eyes, a sharp jawline, and a look that didn’t immediately scream submission.

A cold smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. It didn’t matter what her credentials were. I would break her in five minutes and send her packing just like the rest of them. She would walk into my tower thinking she could handle the infamous Modric Woods, and she would leave realizing she was entirely out of her depth.

I closed the laptop, the sudden darkness of the screen reflecting my own hardened expression.

This penthouse was a fortress. My rules were absolute. And nobody crossed my rules. Nobody.

📢 AUTHOR’S NOTE

Welcome to my first series book, everyone! ❤️ Thank you so much for choosing to read Sinful Rules and embarking on this dark journey with Modric and Naomi.

Because of my busy school and work schedule, I will be updating this story on a weekly basis. I want to ensure every single chapter is packed with the intensity, drama, and romance you deserve, so the extra time will go toward making the writing as strong as possible!

Thank you all for your incredible patience and support—I love you all so much!

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